


Between the Besotted

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Crossdressing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-12
Updated: 2012-07-12
Packaged: 2017-11-09 19:26:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/457504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's 1919 and he's wearing Chanel. It's not from any men's collection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between the Besotted

I.

By luck or chance or some errant mistake on Fate’s behalf, America finds himself in a cabaret, and he finds himself with France. France, who, raked with influenza and the remains of trenches drawn through his veins, is dressed to imaginary nines, every facet of his person carefully decided upon well in advance. Whose hair is parted far to the side and carefully finger-waved to fall elegantly but with great care. Who, holding himself with grace impressive even in Europe, beckons him from across the room, drawing covetous eyes. The year is 1919 and he’s wearing Chanel. It isn’t from any men's collection.

Everything is wine-coloured, shades of black and deep purples and bluish burgundies—warm in temperature but not in colour. He imagines the building itself must be sun-baked brick, the walls beneath the heavy fabrics draped across them painted plaster. He thinks of home, of Prohibition, thinks some of his people would disapprove, and orders scotch anyway.

“This’s new,” he says, gesturing to France in the most subdued manner he knows. His glass is still mostly full, so he mustn’t be drowning his sorrows. A passing whim to be here, maybe. But why—this?

France’s mouth, painted a dark, lush red, curls into a snake’s smile, with no teeth. “Nothing is new,” he returns easily. “You are only young.”

“Aw, that the game you’re playing? Hurts my heart, France, it really does.”

France sniffs with overdramatized haughtiness, sipping his wine and crossing his legs. “Age before beauty, darling.”

His eyes follow France’s movement, trying to glean sense out of the dim lighting of the club. “Not too sure there, you’re lookin’ pretty damn good this evening. What’s got you all kitted out?”

France’s hands flutter, busying themselves with the wineglass and the hem of the dress and the seam of his stockings. “Kind of you, _Amerique_. It is simply pleasant to be here, among my people.”

“Now that no one’s sick or off getting shot or poisoned, right?” Suddenly humourless, the proceedings of the past months all too memorable. Nations forged and treaties made. Europe wasn’t worth its weight in gold, as much trouble as the continent made amidst themselves. He was eager for the end of this mess.

 “Precisely.” France’s smile is sliver-thin. “I’m surprised you are still here, I must admit.”

“And why’s that?” He leans back in his chair and grins, fingers curling around his glass. “Paris’s never treated me badly, and sorry to say that as long as negotiations are on-going, I’ve got to stay.”

“So I _will_ be putting up with you for a few months more, then,” France murmurs, swirling the wine in his glass gently.

“Well you don’t have to treat it like such a chore,” he can’t even manage faux-sternness anymore, too giddy to be away from politics, if only for the evening.

France gives an enigmatic—decisively _Gallic_ —shrug. “It’s never any great task, playing audience to those that would enjoy the city.”

_My city_ lies unsaid between them, thin rivulets of pride streaking through the implication. America lets him have it, easily—biased as he remains, even now, Paris is gorgeous, lit up brightly and chilled with pleasant air from the river, elegant and statuesque as any a city may be. Another time he’ll find reason to be cross with France, inevitably, but there is not a word to be said against the city now.

Instead he only says, “I always enjoy her. It’s a pity I’m here so rarely.”

“Hardly, _Amérique._ ”

“Maybe not lately,” he amends. “Europe’s on the mend though, yeah? It gets better before it gets worse.”

France gifts him with an ambiguous expression, not so much _caught_ as deliberately formed between longing and a cold fury. America puzzles over it for a few moments as they sip from their respective glasses in quiet, considers the war and the influenza and how bankrupt the continent is going and how _fast_ , and for that long moment stretched between them like fairy floss unwound from a paper cone, he’s thankful—so incredibly glad—to be young and healthy and to bounce back so easily. If he were a better person, he reflects, he might feel guilty for profiting off of war and growing ever-bountiful as the Old World collapses in upon itself.

But he is not that good of a person.

“It really has been a long time, France,” he offers quietly, the figurative olive branch between them.

“Mm. Under the circumstances, I could have done with it being longer.” France stands, rearranging the folds of his skirts to drape properly to his knees, and again America’s struck by the changes made: shadow and dim lighting lend an air of softness he knows France doesn’t possess; the boxy cut of the dress reminiscent of the style coming to head in the States.

America stands after him in turn and offers his arm as France curls into his coat, some dark, unidentifiable colour in the dimness. He hasn’t finished his drink but finds that it goes straight to his head anyway, warm and cottony even as they depart into the Parisian night.

II.

1947, and France has taken a gleeful liking to Dior and the New Look. America’s busy all through January, half of it spent in a frenzied panic that he has no desire to repeat. At the beginning of February, France finds him in Hollywood still, holed up with his paperwork in a rented apartment. He takes a look at America (sallow-cheeked, dark-eyed and curdle-stomached) and whisks him off to Paris again, barring protest with a stern look and a soft hand.

“It will do you well to leave for a while,” France says, and he’ll be damned if he isn’t right, at least a bit. “It does little good to linger so long in such a trauma. You liked the city well enough before; things have changed, there will be new sights to see.”

America remembers Paris before the automobile and the television, before telegraph even, when it would take months by sea to visit and the excursions were far and few between. He remembers the city lit up for the Exposition Universelle, the tower still in production, an unsightly, spindly thing that loomed more than it graced, now so very essential to the skyline.

And he finds himself saying, “Alright.”

It’s a week later that he finds himself in front of France, dredging Hollywood up from the back of his mind again with makeup on the tips of his fingers. France drags him over, sits them down on wobbly stools and offers between them, “This is what you have for an art.” There’s the shake of a head in there, not quite in disapproval. “It isn’t that of Europe, but it’s yours.”

“And this is--?”

“Arts fester and expire if left unused. You have skill, _Amérique,_ and I am offering a canvas.”

He takes to it right away after that, unearthing powders and bases and rouges that France barely recalls now, so rarely are they in use. But it’s a novelty to see America so focused and—content, for lack of a better word. He rubs his fingers periodically over a stray rag to catch the excesses of powder, moving his hands immediately back to France’s face, his chin held in a gentle grip as feather-light touches trace over the arches of his cheekbones. It’s surreal nearly, the two of them in the flat, late afternoon sun trickling in through the sheer drapes.

America stands back finally, examining France’s face with an acute eye. “Could do with lipstick, but I don’t know what you have. A dark red would look good on you.”

France smiles a little, commits it to memory. “All those women in your Hollywood, I had supposed you _would_ know something about makeup.”

“Mm.” His fingers brush down the side of France’s nose once, and again, America’s eyes still sharply critical. He has a wolf’s grin. “None of them are making it there, y’know. I think you’d have better chances.”

“Flattering, _Amérique_.”

“I know it is. Came from me, after all.”

“You think very highly of yourself.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” His cockiness approaches the point of stupidity, but France lets him have it for now. There had been worse times for arrogance and greater consequences. In the wake of a war won and an economic boom, he’s disinclined to say much in opposition to America anymore. It is, more than anything, adapting to a political climate in which Western Europe is rapidly being disregarded on a world stage. Sometimes it’s startling how little he cares—but they’ve been around long enough that he knows this isn’t indefinite. _On the mend_ , America had said all those years ago. And she would mend again.

France says nothing on it, but shakes his head. “Are you finished, then?”

He gnaws at the inside of his cheek. “Do I have to be?”

**Author's Note:**

> This is up on tumblr [here](http://idlewritings.tumblr.com/post/26981274664/i-by-luck-or-chance-or-some-errant-mistake-on). This version has some very minor changes.
> 
> 1919 is the year of the Paris Peace Conference and the tail end of the 1918 flu epidemic. It killed 3% of the world’s population and affected about 27%. Which is a lot.
> 
> 1947, aside from being the birth year of a whole lot of baby boomers, was also the year the Black Dahlia murder occurred in Los Angeles. Notoriously gory with an accompanying media blitz. It was also the year that Dior’s “New Look” was released, in the beginning of February. Paris during WWII had, rather understandably, lost its standing as the fashion capital of the world. Dior’s iconic look (with a narrower waist and fuller skirts + bust) brought back a good deal of that esteem.
> 
> There’s probably going to be another part of this (I have at least half of it written already) but I wanted to see what you all thought of what’s already written. If it seems unfinished that’s because it is;;;


End file.
